harlots kiss better
by immer wenn es dunkel wird
Summary: there's nothing worth stealing here – what about a kiss? /SpaBel, minor GerBel, AusHun and PruHun; cat burglar & billionaire!au; WIP/
1. i x Queen of Saigon

_harlots kiss better_

| Ideals are pretty stars; small and sparkling and faraway. Temptation is the moon, big and bright and always close by. |

Note(s): This is inspired by the music of Lana Del Rey and the performance of Anne Hathaway as 'Catwoman' in Batman: The Dark Knight Rises. Comparisons between both ladies and the personification of Belgium are easily drawn, so let me _spell_ it out for you dears.

Warning(s): femme fatales, cat burglars and billionaires; the Color Police universe; thievery, mild violence, flirtation and double entendres, winks at the Batman-universe, etc, etc.

Pairing(s); Spain x Belgium x Germany and Austria x Hungary x Prussia; mentions of other pairings, just _keep your eyes open._

Summary: there's nothing worth stealing here – what about a kiss? /SpaBel, GerBel; cat burglar & billionaire!au; WIP/

_I hereby disclaim any rights._

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_money is the anthem of success – so put on mascara and your party dress_

_National Anthem; Lana Del Rey_

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Before reality and tragedy decided to blend together into an unfortunate car accident, dragging both of her parents down to the bottom of the river, she used to have a million-dollar genuine smile and dimples in her bulb, rosy cheeks. Her mother, God bless her soul, would sit her down before the bathroom mirror and apply luscious streaks of red upon her plump childish lips; velveteen scarlet, attractive vermillion, Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent, the finer cosmetics in life. She always told her to avoid the 'wrong' type of crowds and _cross your legs like a lady, darlin'_. Mommy dearest bought her designer doll-dresses and petticoats and she'd gush about how irresistible her little girl looks in that particular shade of pink. _–she mostly wears black now, though_- Her older brother, she hasn't seen him in ages; probably sellin' low-class cocaine in alleyways behind the casino to the upper echelon frat boys again, would scoff and complain about the long hours in the shopping center, trudging from Madden to Versace with fashionable boutique-bags and shoeboxes.

Fairytales end with a happily ever after, but when even **_that's_** over, the memories are often sour and sting like salt in open wounds.

Things turned vile from the point two uncharismatic, disgruntled police officers knocked on their mansion's front door and informed them of their parents' passing. Her older brother didn't comment when the reporters came hollerin' and inquirin', merely slammed them out of their lives with a forceful, adamant expression. Chopin's Marche Funebre was the anticipated funeral song and she pawned her first cigarette from her sibling after the ceremony was over. They weren't allowed to go to the mortuary; they had to pay their final respects from the first row of pews and her tears rolled over her face, drawing stripes of watery black. Daddy's heritage was devoured by money-starved lawyers, board members, the IRS and family members with good intentions. Guess what the road to hell is made of? _Exactly._

Social services, good people with lousy paychecks, tore the remains of her family to shreds when the youngest, a child who could already distinguish proper vintage from supermarket brands, got sent to the cousins Bonnefoy in Paris; he was still moldable, possessed a memory slate with a few dents that could be straightened by new fresh faces. Older brother got a part of the heavily damaged trust fund and packed his bags to a prestigious university's dorm room. He graduated in illegal trade with a keen sensible nose for dirty money; he promised her he'd open an off-shore bank account in the Bahamas for her. Another way to launder the cash clean, she supposes.

Her household name was slandered when certain members of the board of her father's company were sentenced for large-scaled corruption and nepotism; several branch-corporations had to lay off several hundred employees in result to still book profits and the tabloids were all over the scandal, ruining daddy and mommy's goody two-shoes images one offending statistics report at a time. Her former friends, those girls with Louis Vuitton purses and faux-innocent Bambi eyes, avoided her like the plague. 'Wrong' people picked her egg-shamble self-esteem off from the floor, piece by piece, and pushed her onwards, propelled her towards forging ID's, shop-lifting, pick-pocketing and faking million-dollar smiles.

Diamonds always have been a girl's best friend; they're _forever_ and they don't judge what the presses twitter and publish on the net. They never stray and they look prettier around one's neck than a fellow female.

Under the tutelage of Wang Yao, a Chinese master-thief and con-artist, she skips through art galleries and gala's in fancy cocktail dresses; charmin' and chucklin' her way right into the core of the Prado's security system in Madrid and leaving Spain with a priceless Rubens rolled inside her travelling bag. There's always a market for everything, he once entrusted her over a steaming bowl of spicy noodles, the market just isn't always available for the general public. Knowing where to look for an actual buyer isn't all that hard, she discovered, being a stunning blonde with Marilyn Monroe-flair just helps the cause. Her mentor retired from the actual action a few years back, mostly busying himself with selling, but he still runs an official pawnshop in case the U.S. government comes knocking down the doors. She sometimes contributes to the business with a ruby-encrusted bracelet here and an antique, state of the art sculpture there.

Her mother used to warn her about dating, telling her that an _artist_ would break her fragile heart; she dates Hollywood's most-wanted actors, CEO's and oil-magnates and allows them to spoil her, _Prada sunglasses, dear_? _Latest collection!_ Break 'em before they break you. Scarlet lips and a full pout, gentlemen prefer whoever, whenever, wherever as long as _whoever_ is discrete and doesn't come knocking for a paternity test. Sitting ducks, the lot of them, and she always carefully doses how much she takes before she ditches them with crocodile tears, gentle caresses fleeting over the knuckles of their fingers and _oh, it's not me, it's the fame. _

(Fame ruined her before, now she's ruining them. Lex talionis; a fortune for a fortune.)

On a party mid-August, always a party with exquisite bubbles and hors d'oeuvres and flashy click-click red carpets, she intended to stay low-profile; perhaps grabble a few Rolexes for the sheer thrill of stealin', but that's all. _Honest_. Until she found herself waltzing away on the tunes of Strauss in attractive arms, decked in Armani or _whatever_ up-to-par with the latest socialite trends. He was devastatingly handsome, slicked-back blonde, baby _blues_, and obscenely wealthy. Priorities, she thought to herself, because that was Ludwig Beilschmidt, the heir to the most prestigious car-manufacturing company in the world, and if she could lighten his pockets… Another notch on her bedpost, except not really. He didn't _do_ girls, he was geeky and blushed at the sheer mention of a night between the sheets and he was a skilled tactician but a dork in relationships. She shouldn't _like _him.

He was head-over-heels for her teasing and tempting, for how her searing kisses bruised his lips and made them bee-stung red, for how she could make a sexual innuendo and his peers were shaking with loud guffaws and he just modestly turned his head to avoid everyone seeing the pink dusting over his cheeks. She would smirk knowingly and give his hand a tender squeeze and maybe, if she wasn't who she essentially was, he could've been her _type_.

Tabloids were literally all over the mismatched couple that she and Ludwig constituted; she, the poor girl from the ruined family, the shootin' star of Wall Street, the _wishes don't come true_ and he; the German prodigy, favored over his older irresponsible almost-alcoholic brother, excelling in finance and management and sports. Her older brother called her from Bolivia after one paparazzo managed to snatch an intimate moment between them, capture them kissing on camera and published the photo in some ambiguous magazine; he claimed he was happy for her, that she managed to rise from the ashes and reel in one of the _hotshots_. She didn't have the heart to confess Ludwig would be another heist. Another _check please_.

Way before shacking up with mister CEO of Beilschmidt Enterprises, her eldest sibling once asked her why she was so hell-bent on livin' la vida loca, on double-crossing the rich and famous and emptying their bank accounts with her belladonna looks. She had bit her bottom lip, staining the surface of her teeth _rouge_ and had swayed over to the balcony to regard the marvelous panorama over Madrid which the five-star hotel provided her with. She had answered she liked the thrill of clutching something just out of reach even if she isn't supposed to, she said she wanted to get back at the world, to take back what fate pulled away. He huffed, _don't go in self-righteous, it isn't our thing _and bid her goodnight. She threw the cell phone onto the boulevard below.

Companionship works wonders for her adrenalin, she noticed, she often goes wandering about in closed museums late at night while telling sweetheart _Luddy_ that she's going to stay over at a girlfriend or visit a family member off-state or whatever excuse she can think of in five seconds flat. She makes a beeline for a shady pawnshop and asks politely for Kiku Honda. He's affiliated with her former mentor, he provides her with the latest technological equipment to get around the high-tech security systems and he occasionally hacks into the camera's software to create a loop in case she gets too much in view. They split the profit and she basks in the triumph of another success. Boyfriend's kissing her cheek when she comes home and inquires politely, sweetly, affectionately if she had a wonderful time. Her smile stretches when she informs him she had a _blast_.

Tonight will be the usual, she thinks instantly when her _beau_ informs her that they're invited to the most-discussed ball of the year. People with a dirty conscience and a nice amount of dough seeking to purge themselves of ill thoughts about inflicted poverty and resignations, they swarm towards the Edelstein charity case; they want their pictures in the newspapers and the stocks of their companies up-up-up the following morning. If they're so keen on donating, she doesn't mind to collect once in a while.

She's careful in applying her Lancôme mascara, slicking her lashes with vibrant black and experimentally blinks to avoid smudging. Now really, it'd be such a pity if she'd manage to appear sloppy in contrast with her impeccable _beau_; Ludwig always manages to look so terribly, tragically handsome in a suit, the material hugging his defined muscles and frame just painfully right and, gosh, the spotlight will form a halo around his honest no-nonsense face. She smirks as she thinks about all the silly socialites staring, awing and gasping at his entrance on the red carpet, _why_, those poor gemstones around their necks might be left unattended. Casting a glance at her Blackberry to confirm the time, she gracefully slides away from her boudoir and saunters over to the leather Louboutin slingbacks in the walk-in closet.

There's a faint screech as the door to the majestic bedroom in the penthouse opens, the hollow light clings to an impressive gray silhouette from behind. The corners of her burgundy-painted lips creep up into a smirk as she regards the golden hereditary cufflinks, chinking against one another like champagne glasses when he statuesquely walks over to her. His warm hand is on her bare shoulder, his hot breath fanning against the sensitive skin of her neck as the palm glides over her shoulder blade and there's that _familiar_ silver thread of guilt unraveling inside her stomach.

"_Liebling_," Ludwig simply says in his authoritarian tenor, "We must hurry, we'll take the Mercedes to maximize our travelling options. Traffic will be _wahnsinnig_." A sigh tumbles from in between her parted lips, because her _beau_ is always so punctual and so uptight.

She responds with a taunt, "Chauvinist." His eyes sparkle at the jest and the guilt expands, because he deserves better than her. From all the billionaires on the continent, she got the one with no foul intentions, the guy who actually reads the New York Times with a cup of all-American coffee in the morning, the guy whose heart she's going to break when she leaves him after someone mysteriously steals ten thousand dollars from his hidden safe.

But the vault behind the authentic Rembrandt is beckoning her and she kind of, sort of, likes the way his scowl fades when she laces her slender fingers around his wrist or the way lust swirls and blends unabashedly in those heaven-blue irises of his when she covets his jugular vein with her bare teeth, but she doesn't like him enough to _stick around_.

Besides, she reasons quickly as she puts a stray lock of gold behind her ear, the Edelstein charity ball is basically an all-you-can-steal buffet and the Mercedes is extremely convenient for a quick, unnoticed getaway. It puts her mind off wondering whether she'll ever find _the_ guy who'll make her stay.

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This is a Work-In-Progress, so please be patient with me as I try to assemble a decent plotline and write everything down neatly. Also, give me your thoughts, opinions and, _dare I say_, criticism. Give them, I'm greedy :D


	2. ii x Party Favors

_harlots kiss better_

Note(s): Introduction of the second main character: _Antonio Fernandez Carriedo_. Also, every chapter has a different point of view.

Warning(s): _money_ and Picasso, baby.

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_she laughs like gold, her mind's like a diamond – buy her tonight, she's still shining_

_Carmen; Lana Del Rey_

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People don't just like Antonio for his go-lucky smiles and bright, honest meadow-green eyes, _oh no_, they practically adore him for his sob-story past, -father was a Spanish immigrant, mother was the son of a preacher man and he just _happened-_, and his never-let-you-down attitude. He serves the law with a tremendous dexterity, an unwavering sense of justice and, well, it doesn't hurt that mister Carriedo looks extremely good in the uniform. His neighbor, madam stereotypical senior citizen, gives him a bright green apple for work every morning, but not this morning, because commissioner Kirkland appointed him as reinforcement officer on the greatest charity event in the entire city.

He's protecting the stars tonight, the rich and the famous and the infamous.

Life hasn't been easy on him; his father worked himself to the bare bones, he emptied the power in his muscles for a meager salary and haphazardly risked his health with strenuous jobs. His mother was disowned by the local Christian community, gone were the string of family pearls around her olive neck and her nerves welcomed the relaxing company of mister Johnny Walker. They moved to NYC when Antonio was old enough to realize his home wasn't a perfect picture 50's commercial but still young enough to cherish hope. _Mamá _joined AA-meetings, _papá_ joined a small-sized gang. _Papá _got shot. If the licensed therapist at the bureau was any good at her job, then that would've been the psychological moment lil' Tonio developed an affinity for enrolling at the academy. Antonio just says he likes helping people and has no intentions _whatsoever_ to seek revenge on a small-time crook. (_doesn't stop him from fantasizing about emptying his gun onto the fucker's head, though._)

His smiles are infectious; truly, but his superior, Arthur 'I served in _bloody_ Scotland Yard' Kirkland and his partner, Vash 'Triggerfinger' Zwingli, contrast the Latino's perpetual sunshine-behavior with sour scowls and disgruntled dismissals. He often ends up in heated arguments with the British commissioner on, well, basically everything. Except tonight, tonight is special. Tonight, Antonio accepts his mission without one single retort, without one sly condescending grin because he remembers how the Edelstein foundation provided him and his mother with food and shelter when the glass beneath their feet finally cracked. He puts on his uniform, the emblem of the NYPD proudly embroidered on his right arm, and pins the broche of the 'Red Squadron' on his breast pocket. Vash rolls his eyes when he notices the giddiness in Antonio, who keeps rocking on the balls of his feet in excitement.

He stares at the Museum of Modern Arts in dumbstruck awe; are these people for _real_?

Paparazzi click-clack away on their cameras as the celebrities parade on-and-off the red carpet on their dazzling high-heels and Italian leather dress shoes. Photographers cheer loudly as yet another couple is announced and everyone teeter-tatters on the edge of fame-starvation when Herr Beilschmidt and his plus one climb out of a stunning silver-gray cabriolet. Antonio makes the mistake of glancing directly at the beauty dangling on the man's arm and nearly doesn't have the time to pick up his jaw off the ground. She seems to have noticed the officer; when she passes by his post, she produces him a seductive simper and throws her head back in a model-manner and her golden ringlets literally bounce against her pale shoulders in resistance to gravity.

Vash nudges him in his sides with the sharp bone of his elbow in case Antonio'd do something incredibly stupid. Like _wave_.

Inside, the museum has received a serious make-over in favor for installing a stage to hold a miniature orchestra, two rectangular tables with linen tablecloths and refreshments, the works of the 'from Matisse to Bourgeois' exhibition are occupying the right wall of the square room and servants in elegant costumes are catering the guests with sparkling champagne. Antonio is discretely standing near an emergency exit, overlooking starlets dance to posh-sounding classical music. He prefers guitars over violins, but this particular tune got him thumping the tip of his foot in sync with the beat. The couple of the evening, Roderich Edelstein and his spouse, look particularly stunning in their ensembles –Antonio doesn't even bother guessing which designer styled them, such delicacies are a little lost on him- and the two are talking with Beilschmidt and the beauty who blatantly flirted with him.

He catches snippets of their conversation when they move closer to the bar, located a few feet from his left; "Honestly now, I can't believe Taurys Laurinaitis –_of all people_- would mingle with someone from the Braginski clan.. Such a promising upcoming European artist."

"I have done business with Ivan Braginski, a rather peculiar persona.. Er ist wirklich, wie sagt man es schon… He is polite but ruthlessly effective." The blonde touches Beilschmidt's arm and chuckles sweetly, her thumb rubbing soothing circles.

Roderich excuses himself from his company, rearranges his glasses on the bridge of his nose and takes his place on the stage to commence his mandatory speech. The beauty, to Antonio's sheer disbelief, sways over to his corner and stands casually next to him amongst the shadows. Her sparkling eyes sweep over his frame, linger on the Glock in his holster and focuse on his face. He nervously smiles at her.

"Hello, _señorita_.. I'm afraid I haven't caught your name yet." She allows a smirk to cross her scarlet lips, full and plump and, Antonio swallows, _attractive_.

Her voice is smooth, enthralling, "Call me Bel. No need to get formal." He nods and introduces himself properly, not wanting the woman to think he's unsophisticated.

"So.. Antonio.." His name rolls off her tongue, "Enjoying yourself despite the _serve and protect_? The art is quite lovely, especially the _peintures_." She launches into a full-fledged story, "Picasso is one of my personal favorites. I visited his museum in Barcelona a few years back.." She pauses and takes in his features, "Do inform me if I'm boring you.."

He fiddles idly with the upper button of his shirt, "Oh no, no.. _Señorita_, I'm just a bit shocked you would bother talking to me. Hehe.. But yes, Picasso is a _very_ good painter. I've already seen the permanent collections here and Les Demoiselles d'Avignon is a…"

She cuts him off by placing her hand on his shoulder and he immediately stiffens, "Why would I not talk to you, officer?" The gleam in those bright green orbs makes him falter, "We're all human here." Bel leans in, closer and closer until the tip of her nose nearly brushes against his unruly chestnut hair, "These men and women _here_… My, you wouldn't want to _know_ what some of them do in their spare time. Here's the catch… You can't even arrest them if you did.. Know, that is."

Choosing to ignore the implications and harsh accusations in her former statements, Antonio gazes at her from his peripheral view and softly speaks, "Some humans are more equal than others.. We don't all arrive in a flashy Mercedes. I'm a simple police official and you are the most stunning woman I've ever laid eyes upon." She chortles, low and pleasant. The sound tickles his ears.

"The distinction in class is evident." Her hand falls off his shoulder when he says the last part of his monologue.

Something in her irises twinkles, something undetermined and her teeth sparkle underneath the fluorescent lights as she grins. "You think I'm stunning?" There's slight disbelief creeping in her soprano but he confirms with an eager nod.

"You outshine everyone in this museum. _Easily_." Antonio doesn't know what sort of madness spooks inside of his skull when he not only compliments Ludwig Beilschmidt's _girlfriend_, but he also has the _balls_ to take her frail hand and press a ghost of a kiss against the bone-white knuckles. Thank God, they're in a desolate corner and every pair of eyes is on Edelstein, eloquently and elegantly enchanting the crowd with his 'let's make this world a much better place' speech.

_Philanthropist._

She purrs the following, "I have to play eye-candy again; I hope I'll ever have the pleasure to see you again, officer Antonio, sir." The hem of her little black dress flutters against her ivory legs as she moves forwards but she stops abruptly to give him a wink, "The legal system's like karma though. Quite the bitch. Watch your step."

Vash appears next to him no less than two seconds later, intimidating as always; "You're an idiot, Carriedo. What if something happened when you were making kissy-faces at lady blonde and _taken_ over here?" He grits out the 'taken' extra hard to get his point across.

"Oh, com'on, _amigo_." Antonio complacently simpers, "Everyone in this room is dirty rich. They can _buy_ a real Van Gogh if they wanted one. Pocket change… She is rather pretty, isn't she?" He expectantly looks at his partner.

The blonde smacks the back of the tanned man's head and rolls his eyes so hard Antonio actually thinks they're going to pop out of the sockets one day.

Things go awry later that evening when the Erzsébet Edelstein, née Hédérvary, loses her diamond locket. Antonio winces visibly when hubby Roderich gives all the security guards a crude verbal lashing at their complete and utter incompetence and inadequacy at doing their jobs. His wife, headstrong and gorgeous in a form-fitting turquoise cocktail dress, calms the red-faced philanthropist with a stern glance and a few whispered words; she then looks at the corps and tells them to keep a look-out for a necklace with a pear-shaped locket, riddled with South-African diamonds. –_She doesn't specify whether there's blood on the pretty stones, but it's best not to ask.- _The brunette placating as ever, states the lock must've come undone and it's probably on the floor. Her husband admiringly strokes the skin of her bare neck and dismisses the guards. Antonio, impressed by the woman, walks back to his corner, but scans the inches of ground he crosses in case there's a jewel on display.

His eyes flit to a familiar face, to the gorgeous companion of Herr Beilschmidt, who is sipping rather unconcerned from a crystal tumbler.

Mind must be playing tricks on him, because Antonio could swear Bel's also stuffing a necklace into her satin-webbed purse.

Afterwards, when the drunken socialites shamble and scuffle into their stretch-limousines with flustered cheeks and shouting crude, inappropriate jokes at someone they _think_ is a club-bouncer, Antonio, Vash and his other colleagues are called over to commissioner Kirkland for a throughout 'debriefing'. Alfred F. Jones, a rookie at narcotics, is already making bets with the others whether Arthur and Antonio would have a fall-out again about something miniscule and unimportant. The discussion starts five minutes into the debriefing and is, as usual, a result from Antonio's optimism and Kirkland's pessimism. They agree on one thing; the piece of jewelry isn't just _lost_; it's stolen.

Speculations on who stole it just happens to be the reason for another heated argument. Alfred makes a profit of 30 dollars and 59 cents.

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I'm feeling needy again; _indulge me_.


	3. iii x Wanna Jump?

_harlots kiss better_

Note(s): Introductions of _Wang Yao (or Yao Wang, whichever you prefer_) and _Honda Kiku (or Kiku Honda)_. Also, I'm not that comfortable with technical specifics, so just pretend everything I wrote concerning software and cell phone providers is correct, okay? (CSI can only give me **so** much info.) -glad we got that established.

Warning(s): language and a smudge of SuFin (if you want to interpret **it** that way.) Shameless BBC-Holmes reference. Couldn't resist.

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_last fight, fuck them – last words before you went and left again_

_Jump; Lana Del Rey_

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Softly chiming when the door to the trodden down pawnshop opens, the silver-varnished bell stills as Bel walks into the dusty establishment; shelf upon shelf covered and cluttered with meaningless trinkets, an old-fashioned counter creaking underneath scattered documents and lease-forms and the smell of Oolong always wafts throughout the vicinity. She chuckles when a series of obscenities in Chinese flits from the private quarters, concealed by an oriental curtain. Someone stumbles out to greet their customer, a young girl with dark brown tassels and kind chocolate-brown eyes. Her lips twitch into an amiable grin when she recognizes the blonde and throws some more foreign words over her shoulder. Yao shoves the curtain aside with a ladle still in his right hand, beads of sweat swelling upon his forehead and his white apron messy with a substance she thinks to identify as soy sauce.

"You come baring gifts?" He wonders aloud with a soft smile playing upon those thin streaks that define his mouth. Her former mentor still is slender and slim despite his age_, he's much older than he's willing to admit and she's not keen on receiving a whack from the ladle_.

Unzipping her large Adidas sports' bag with manicured nails, she hands the Chinese man an envelope with more than a couple of Benjamin's and a bracelet, light and constituting out of silver shackles with crystals. "Swarovski." She merely states and drops both of the items upon the mahogany counter.

He opens the envelope, counts the bills meticulously and nods solemnly, "Kiku's in the back. What's the target of the evening?" His little sister, pretty in her hipster glasses with thick black frames, toys with the bracelet as Yao and herself discuss the lay-out of the operation.

Wang Yao grew up in communist China on a boiling point, witnessed the rise of capitalism in a flood of electric refrigerators, blenders and other household appliances, had seen both of his parents starve to the point of resembling skeletons, haunting and dull irises and dilated pupils, just so he could have a decent upbringing, so he could provide them with food when he was an adult; a local government official discovered his talents as a gymnast, taut muscles and subtle waist and a startling balance. He could've easily achieved a gold medal on the Olympics under the harsh training exercises. Instead he decided to use his finesse to steal from the rich, aka the uprising bourgeois with their prosperous joint ventures, and give back to the needy. He developed a Robin Hood complex when the stomachs of his parents were filled with more decadent servings.

He took his little sister with him when he moved to the States; often sending money overseas to sustain his parents' needs and continued to raid safes from wealthy citizens with the justification that the regular people deserved more. His name often pops up on small-organized foundations in the neighborhood, like the one dedicated to the prevention of aids or the community college for juvenile delinquents with second chances. Bel bites her bottom lip when she regards her own composition towards society and finds solace in helping her retired mentor. His sibling gives her an earnest smile, her lips glossed over with pink 1.95$ chapstick, when she slips through the thick brocade curtain to find her accomplice.

On the second floor in a secluded dark bedroom with the eerie blue from a laptop's screen bouncing off the stark black walls, Kiku's fingers glide over the keys of his Toshiba, tap-tap-tap echoes softly in the concentrated silence; there are numerous empty Monster cans on the desk. He doesn't notice her presence until she gently massages his tense neck muscles and he stiffens in return, his spine construed like a ramrod and hands twitching above the keyboard.

"My, Kiku…" She starts in a low lilting tone, "Are those images of pornographic content?" Blowing a stream of hot air against the base of hairline on the back of his neck, her arms wind across his chest in an awkward hug.

Clicking the window away, he exhales and turns his head to give her an accusing, uncomfortable glance, "_Konban wa, Bel-chan._" Figuring she has rattled him enough for the evening, the blonde tease retreats and stretches her arms above her. He takes this as a sign to carefully continue, "How are you? I take it you've come to collect your equipment for tonight's enterprise."

He waits for her to step away behind him and slides over to the other desk, mechanics, slashed open to reveal their inner wiring, small blowtorches and screwdrivers are all over the smooth surface and the Japanese man rummages around in one of the drawers. Dumping a modified earpiece into her opened palm, he propels himself back towards his laptop, the wheels of his chair squeaking when they bump against the rug. Bel scrutinizes the black item, the earpiece cool against her skin and eventually puts it into her right ear.

"I improved the audio," Kiku explains, "Tampered around with the frequency of the masts around the area to disable relocating." She nods, throwing several clothing articles on top of his bed. He unconsciously brings up his thumb to bite on the nail, "I've hacked into the security cameras to be your eyes in the dark."

Her target's office, furnished by a 600$ an hour interior architect and with a pleasant view over the city that never sleeps, would be relatively easy to break into; she duplicated his old-fashioned key a few weeks back during an excursion to the _Hamptons_ with Ludwig and happened to run into _Herre Oxenstierna_ during an exclusive fondue party. Bel has to admit the stern Swede, inclusive of ash-blonde hair and intensive stare, intimidated her at first, but after a few shots of bourbon, everyone mellows out and turns strangely inattentive. _Must've been the cleavage._ Her partner-in-crime shows her more images of the skyscraper's various floors and points out the blind spots of the cameras, mostly shadow-filled corners and obscure narrow pathways.

He twirls around and inquires stiffly, "What will be your means of transportation?" She's halfway changed into her 'cat burglar' outfit: tight-fitted black pants, stretching seductively around her curves and a matching turtleneck, suede gloves and non-descriptive flat boots.

"Borrowed _Luddy's_ Ducatti motorcycle… The pretty one." Bel elaborates and shoves her regular clothes back into the large bag. Pulling her russet curls into a ruffled ponytail, she glances back at Kiku, "Glass cutter and USB-stick with the Trojan Horse virus?"

"Bottom drawer." Kiku deadpans and watches her smear some undefined liquid on a Venetian mask and put the object on, monochrome feathers are curling around her twinkling eyes. "Are you sure that will hold?" He inquires after a moment.

She grins smugly, "Eyelash glue. _If it works on Lady Gaga, it'll work on me as well._" Not entirely sure if the Japanese rolled his eyes before he turns around, the blonde thief retrieves the gadgets and stalks over to her friend.

"Don't forget what my instructions are," the technician mumbles, "Boot up his PC with the USB already in the drive. His password is T, I, N, O in capital letters and the numbers 5 and 6. Upload the virus and it'll overheat every application. Including the software of the safe."

It's cute how he still blushes when she kisses his pale cheek and asks her to wish her the best of luck.

Whizzing past the 10 o'clock evening traffic on the gold-streaked motorcycle, she takes a deep inhale to steel herself for the task at hand. Killing the engine when she parks the vehicle a safe two blocks from the office building, she puts the helmet in the compartment underneath her seat and grabs the more convenient smaller bag, full of emergency tools such as screwdrivers and lock picks, inside the Adidas one. It's lightly drizzling when Bel finds herself right in front of the double-glass doors and she peers around for a less obvious entrance. Buzzing, the static of the earplug eventually makes way for the calm reassuring voice of her accomplice.

"Special emergency exit at the right side of the scraper." Accustomed to the Japanese accent and pronunciation, she confidently stalks over to the inconspicuous door and gets down on one knee to work the hinges with her glass cutter as customary the emergency exit doesn't possess a handle but is simply blank on the outside.

One sturdy kick has the door rattling and another one creates a shallow gaping diagonal hole. Thank God for overachieving parents who adored to cheer for their _little girl_ in the gymnastics team. Managing to worm her way into the dark hallway, she awaits further instructions and grabs a tiny flashlight to ensure better sight.

She walks forward when Kiku tells her to do as much, "Normally there should be a staircase at the end of the corridor." Noticing the cameras conspicuously rotating, she evades their trail and pushes the door with the appropriate sign open. "_Omedetou gozaimasu_." He congratulates in an awkward attempt at comedy, "Eighty four flights of stairs to go."

She prays out-loud, "God, please tell me there's an easier way to get up." Faintly, the blonde distinguishes the sound of keys being tapped.

Kiku apparently excels at telepathy, "On the twenty fourth floor there's the moving plateau for the window cleaners. You'll have to break one of the windows there."

From the point she steadies herself upon the moving platform the mission proceeds quickly; the fresh night wind quips against her rosy cheeks as the plateau rises towards the top floor and stops with a screech, she stumbles but manages to catch herself before she topples over. Bel rummages in the small leather bag, groping around for her glass cutter and triumphantly starts her job once found. She's inside the office before she realizes it, making her way towards the large door, the walls serving as her guide in the overwhelming darkness. With her duplicate key, she opens the way towards the obscure hall leading to the elevators.

"There's a fuse box in the right corner. First switch left of the second last row is the one for the eighty fourth floor." The cabinet wouldn't budge but the side of her foot is extremely persuasive. One high kick and she can easily manipulate the building's generator.

Flipping the switch, Bel slinks back to Oxenstierna's office and turns on the computer. She takes a seat on the desk chair, the smooth pitch black leather-encased cushion squeaks underneath the weight and she wiggles to make herself comfortable. Crossing one leg over the other, the blonde thief waits patiently for the Windows logo to disappear and arches an eyebrow at the unconventional screensaver, a family portrait of five Scandinavians brightly beam at her with a genuine Christmas spirit. She puts the USB stick in the correct slot and clicks the window who proposes a scan of the files on her external hard drive away. Kiku assured her the firewall would be down in a blink of an eye once the virus is uploaded; with the main server fried, she could refract the safe instead of dealing with the complicated software.

Relatively quickly the download is completed and the screensaver blinks black a few times. The anti-virus program alerts her of an aggressive Trojan Horse. Eventually the entire room turns dark again once the virus runs rampant on the software. A smirk pulls on the corners of her lips and she stands up again, leisurely stretching her arms and cocking her head to the right and proceeding by tilting it to the left. Then, the blonde strolls over to the destination of the personal vault and crouches down. It's a modern safe considering that it's connected to the general mainframe of the company, but once that's out of use, the emergency lock is in place and it's a classical case of enter the correct code for access. Bel prefers them this way, because she's never quite gotten the hang of lifting fingerprints nor does she want to stab out someone's eyeballs to possess their retinas. _We're not in CSI after all._

She realizes something's amiss when her Japanese friend swallows forcibly loud and mutters a distraught, "Uh oh."

Lights flicker on above her head, the woman mumbles a curse underneath her breath, storms towards the sturdy desk and hauls the USB out of the computer quickly. Kiku's panicking in her eardrum, "There was a hidden alarm! Abort mission! Abort mission!"

_And to make matters worse…_ "They've shut me from the security cams. Oh, I need tea. I need tea… Yao-_san_!" She rolls her eyes and bolts towards the large circular hole in the third window.

Somebody kicks down the doors, she is paralyzed on the spot and slowly turns to observe a pissed-off police officer aiming his gun. She swallows when she recognizes his partner. _Antonio._

"Miss…" He starts amicably, a nervous grin flitting upon his lips, "We'd like for you to get down on the ground and put your hands in your neck. Can you do that for us?" The other cop, a blonde with menacing eyes reminiscent of the skies above the Alps, points the barrel directly at her. He looks discomfortingly trigger-happy.

Her improvised French accent clings noticeably to the syllables when she speaks, "But, _monsieur_, I'd rather look at you and your handsome _ami_ than at this boring carpet."

"I implore you, _señorit_a, Vash over here," he nods at his partner, "is quite well-versed with a gun. He's more than happy to make a person such as yourself resemble Swiss cheese."

Quickly closing the space between her and the blonde officer, she offers him an unsettling seductive smirk, "Would you really shoot _moi_?" Her finger trails down a path down his chest and Bel notices how the firm grip on the Glock wavers for a moment.

Vash is absolutely baffled when she pulls him closer and presses her pursed lips against his unresponsive ones. Inaudibly, Antonio lets out a gasp and stares when the blonde drives her patella against his partner's crotch. He clutches his groin and growls out an obscene word, with his teeth bare like a rabid canine and his features contort into a snarl. Lipstick is smeared all over his bottom lip. She winks at the tanned officer and dives towards the self-inflicted hole in the window, landing with a thump upon the moving plateau, her small leather bag at her feet.

"Shoot the platform!" He rages and Antonio winces at the harsh tone; picking up the discarded firearm and aiming at the descending tableau. Shots ring throughout the air, but the bullets don't even graze the sturdy cables.

Several police cars stand below, the blue and red lights of their vehicles blinking like a carnival below and she hopes the emergency exit through which she entered is still largely unnoticed. Flying down the staircases from the twenty-fourth floor to the storey, she manages to evade another police officer and escapes through her initial entrance. Bel dares not exhale the oxygen she's been holding in her windpipe until she's safely on the Ducati.

The few blocks to her motorcycle are absolute hell, Kiku has been uncharacteristically quiet and she can only hope the technicians of the city's police force hadn't hacked their line. She dumps the small leather bag into the Adidas one and steadies herself against the vehicle as the adrenalin seeps from her veins.

Static subsides, _they're back online_, "I deeply apologize for my profound silence, Bel-_chan_. I've deduced that the silent alarm had to be triggered when you flipped on the switch for the electricity. I could see two officers enter the elevator before they shut me out. Also, the police has set a blockade in a perimeter of three blocks. I suggest you quickly change into your regular clothes and make a swift escape." He sighs, "It's such a shame you couldn't open the safe, but at least you're unrecognized. Text me when you're home."

It's a miracle Bel manages to change clothes on the deserted parking lot without attracting attention to herself, the area is normally crowded with troubled teenagers and muggers. She puts on her helmet and ignites the engine; she barely remembers how she managed to get into the lobby of the apartment building unscathed. The doorman greets her with artificial politeness and offers to take her sports' bag but she refuses with practiced ease. Ludwig is focusing on an iPad when she enters and looks up, his eyes unnaturally small behind his nerdy glasses.

"Where were you, _liebe_?" He puts the tablet on the saloon table and warily removes the spectacles from the bridge of his nose. "I… I was worried..Police sirens all over the place and.."

Bel gives him a peck on the temple in passing and explains with mild theatrics, "Oh.. Well, Lizzie, -yes I can call Erzsébet Lizzie without repercussions, darlin'- has this fabulous personal trainer. Cuban, I believe. He's such a _doll_. Got nothing on you 'course." She gives him a soothing smile.

Nodding, he shyly returns the gesture and puts the electronic device back upon his lap, "Must've been quite the workout. I can hear your heart pounding from the sofa."

She forces a throaty laugh, "Oh, Luddy, you simply have _no idea_." Excusing herself to take a shower, the blonde woman first dumps the Adidas bag inside the closet for her shoes, a quite reasonable and safe hiding place for certain unsavory goods, sends a message to Kiku on her Blackberry and grabs a few towels.

_She's all over the news the next morning. _They nicknamed her devious kleptomaniac-counterpart 'the Thieving Magpie' after Rossini's masterpiece and the NYPD claims to be tracking her down. There's a picture of the commissioner, a blonde with bushy eyebrows and an officer, she immediately recognizes him as the one she kneed quite unceremoniously in the balls last night, on the front page with Antonio smiling absentmindedly in the background. Ludwig doesn't seem necessarily interested in the article, but reads it nonetheless.

"Thieving Magpie?" Bel echoes the title out loud as she takes her seat for breakfast.

Her _beau_ simply shrugs and comments off-handedly, "There are worse opera pieces to be named after." He pauses, like he mostly does before supplying his statement with a quirky anecdote, "Like _Die Zauberflöte_ by Mozart._"_

"Pretty sure that'd be an euphemism for a penis enlargement instead of a robber, honey." Ludwig nearly chokes on his espresso while she chuckles and pricks with a fork at her omelet.

.

.

Penny for your thoughts?


End file.
